


Copper Streaks

by AnotherAnon0



Series: A Complicated Affair [12]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Anal Sex, Attempted Forced Abortion, Brand New To the Company Sergei meets Jaded Albert, Hate Sex, Heavy Angst, Lust at First Sight, M/M, Mpreg, Nicholai is a supportive friend, One-Sided Relationship, Unrequited Love, Verbal Abuse, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:36:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28922196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: In 1991, just before the collapse of the USSR, Russian Colonel Sergei Vladimir is scooped up by Umbrella to be Oswell Spencer's executive assistant.There, he meets Dr. Albert Wesker and develops a strange affection for him.
Relationships: Sergei Vladimir/Albert Wesker
Series: A Complicated Affair [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827997
Comments: 18
Kudos: 13





	Copper Streaks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetNsimple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetNsimple/gifts).



> A quick note! 
> 
> This takes place in 1991-1992, which is 7 years before the RC incident, and 12 years before Sergei's canonical death. Technically, the RSFSR did not transition into a non-Soviet government until 1992, so in this ficverse, Sergei is brand new to Umbrella, and was snatched up just as the country was falling apart, rather than afterwards.
> 
> And the August Coup of 1991 (as well as Vladimir Kryuchkov) is real! Historical reference for the win.

Sergei cast one final look at himself in the stained mirror. He tried to smooth his coat lapels, and adjust the collar of his sweater, but still gave himself a self-conscious glare before turning to awkwardly shuffle out of the narrow galley-bathroom that was in his dorm room. 

His new _home_.

He didn't mind his new home. It was simple and practical -- a bed, a desk, and the thin bathroom he had to contort his massive body to fit inside. There was a bookshelf in the corner that was barren save for a single, hardcover. A gift he'd been given from Lord Spencer after he'd signed his contract. A book of Pushkin poems. He was very grateful. 

Sergei locked his door and strode down the long, outdoor tin catwalk that connected the staff housing to the main administrative building. He had to swipe a keycard a few times to get inside -- and the tiny piece of plastic fumbled awkwardly in his hand as he tried to get the hang of it. Though he'd been toured around the facilities multiple times, the building was so big and so foreign that he still stopped at the reception desk to ask where the boardroom was. The mousey woman there was kind, she walked him there herself. 

He knocked twice and opened the door, surprised to find the room already full -- dozens of men sitting around the large, oval table. They all stopped their chattering and turned to stare at him as he stood stupidly in the frame of the door. For a moment, he wondered if he were in the right place, concerned until the familiar, jovial voice of Lord Spencer brayed from the very head of the table.

"Oh, Sergei! Please come in!" 

"I did not... know I am... late, Sir." Sergei cleared his throat, wondering if he'd spoken well enough. His English still wasn't as strong as he'd like it to be, "I am sorry."

"Don't apologise, my dear, it was intentional. There was some business to get out of the way you didn't need to concern yourself with. Come, come!" Spencer waved his hand, inviting him to the front of the table. Sergei's massive body awkwardly navigated around the backs of chairs, trying to ignore the gaped-mouth looks of some of the less subtle board members. When he strode up next to Spencer, the older man set his hand on his lower back, and began to introduce him to the table.

"This is Sergei Vladimir. He's a recent acquisition. He was a Colonel in the Soviet special forces prior to the -- uh... well... whatever is happening there at the moment."

\--

Albert rolled his eyes as Lord Spencer began drone out the Russian's accomplishments and titles, insisting he would be a good addition to the company. He was going to serve as Spencer's executive assistant, something that almost made Albert actively scoff. For a moment, he was almost upset by the fact his dark glasses masked the obvious ire in his eyes, but he'd make it known one way or another. 

Spencer began to go through the table, introducing the various faces. When his skeletal, crooked finger directed itself towards Albert, the young man took the opportunity to open his maw as he always did.

"Is Umbrella just collecting Russians now?" Albert drawled, prompting a few giggles, "Are you trying to get them all like... What's that new game the kids are playing? Poke-man?"

The table broke out into snickers hidden behind hands, only a handful of the well-disciplined faces staying neutral. 

As they worked out their entertainment and Spencer attempted to accost them, Albert took a quick moment to assess the Colonel with a side-eyed glance. He was outlandishly tall and broad, towering over the table like a psychotic, muscular skyscraper. He had an incredible amount of scars on his face and neck, slices and lashes -- his entire right eye blown through like someone had taken an unrelenting butcher knife to it. Despite the gore, he seemed to be attempting an air of presentability. Though the clothes he was wearing were obviously old, they were clean and well-kept; and his hair was neat and tidy, save for a reckless strand of oddly long bang which persistently fell from behind the Russian man's ear, fanning in front of his scarred eye.

His hair was mostly grey, but had some remnants of what would have been an odd shade of copper streaking through it. 

Not unattractive, Albert thought. A weird thought. Unsolicited. He disposed of it.

\--

"And this is Dr. Wesker..." Spencer droned to Sergei with a sigh, "The class clown, apparently."

"Why is... military uniform?" Sergei asked curiously, still unsure of why the table had laughed. He'd immediately honed in on the blond's U.S Military garb. He was the only one at the table dressed like that -- the rest in suits or white lab coats. 

"Dr. Wesker is doing some work for Umbrella within the American forces." Spencer said simply.

"And what will _he_ be doing for you, Oswell, getting your tea?" Albert piped up again, crossing his arms.

"In fact..." Spencer bristled, "Sergei was the person we found to be fully tolerant of our _ε-_ strain, Dr. Wesker. You've been working on his prototypes already."

The joviality at the table immediately subsided, stares returning to Sergei with eyes slightly wider than they had been prior. Albert's face slackened, too. Once the table had fallen fully silent, Spencer continued.

"Sergei has agreed to allow Umbrella to utilise his perfect genetic compatibility to manufacture and test new viral strains, and has already turned over ten clones of himself made by the Soviets." Spencer smugly announced, "He is also going to use his military expertise to develop a response team so we can properly begin the mass distribution of our products. He is going to be an invaluable addition to the company."

Sergei stood a bit taller with the praise. He did like Mr. Spencer. 

"Dr. Wesker, since you seem to be so concerned with the _entertainment_ of our employees... Why don't you give Sergei a tour of the lab? Show him where his comrades are?"

\--

Sergei didn't know why the blond man seemed to hate him. 

_Dr. Wesker_ scowled and snarled at every attempt he made to ask a question about something he saw or somewhere they ended up. He made him feel stupid, scoffing and furrowing his brow every time Sergei spoke. He barked at him not to touch things, and snatched items out of his hand aggressively if he did pick something up out of curiosity. 

When the two came to a housing containing dozens of suspension tanks, Sergei gaped excitedly, immediately recognising the clones he'd handed over to Umbrella when he was recruited. 

"Me!" He chirped with a smile, wading between the tanks and staring up at the near-perfect replications of himself that had been made in the _Spetsnaz_ super soldier program. Umbrella had wanted them, and he'd given them over after some convincing from Spencer and an old friend of his. The clones were missing some of of his secondary features, making them somewhat difficult to identify as his to the untrained eye. But Sergei knew his _sons_ , as he called them. 

Albert crossed his arms as he watched Sergei circle the tanks, face an expression of contented awe. 

"So what did the old man do to get you to hand these over?" Albert drawled, "How much did he throw at you?"

Sergei poked his head around one of the tanks, "Throw?"

"Money! How much money did he give you?!"

"Oh..." Sergei hummed, "American money. Lots. But I give to my friend. I do not want."

Albert scoffed stupidly in disbelief, "You didn't... what?" He slipped through a few of the tanks, almost trying to chase after the older man as he toured around and around the various clones.

"Lord Spencer will help my country." He responded simply, "I do not want money."

Albert stopped mid-step, head tossed back as a bellowing laugh screeched from him so loudly Sergei was almost shaken by the sudden noise. He turned on the heels of his boots, furrowing his brow and staring down the blond.

"Why you laugh?! Always!"

Albert had to snatch his glasses from his face to keep them from shaking off, burying a knuckle in one of his eyes as he sniffled through the final of his giggles.

"Y-you honestly believe _Oswell E. Spencer_ gives a shit about your country?" Speaking it aloud almost prompted another laugh from him, but he swallowed it. "Y-you really think Spencer is going to-to- what? _Stop the collapse of the bloody Soviet Union_?"

Sergei crossed his arms, unscarred eye raking over the younger man as he mocked him. He could see his eyes now, without his glasses -- a pale, pale blue, made almost white by the dimmed violet glow of the suspension tanks around them. The virologist had a _too_ -nice face -- a pin-straight nose, handsome jaw, and perfectly proportioned lips. His hair was so tidy and even it almost looked fake, not a strand was unruly or untrained, much unlike Sergei's perpetually wild coif that seemed to have a mind of its own. And despite being a soldier, there wasn't a single scratch or scar on the blond's peachy, healthy skin.

"He -- he will help!" Sergei said finally.

Albert shook his head, dropping his arms to his side as his cruelly amused grin persisted, "Whatever you say, Sergei."

\--

Sergei had almost known it was going to end like this.

The moment the blond had seen him wandering the halls, over an hour after they'd parted, aimlessly trying to find the pathway back to the dorms. The moment he begrudgingly offered to take him to his room. The moment he stepped inside the threshold and began to interrogate his living situation.

_'You really ought to have better quarters than this... Being Spencer's pet Russian and all.'_

_'I am fine here. I am happy.'_

They turned into a mess of limbs and clothes after Albert had finished idly flipping through his single book -- his Pushkin. Faces smashing together, lips sucking and slurping with teeth gnawing on tongues. 

Albert's body was just as eerily perfect as his face. Well-defined but not bulky. Clean and neat. Still not a single scar marring him. Despite being much larger, more well-endowed, and far more muscular, it almost made Sergei self-conscious. The blond seemed to like running his long, slender fingers over all of Sergei's marks -- prodding at the old, pitted bullet wounds and burns, scratching over the long, raised abrasions and keloids. He pinched his nipples into rock-hard buds, and scraped his nails along his arms primitively while muttering filthy nothings. 

Albert took him, something Sergei didn't mind. In his limited sexual experience, he'd always been on the bottom, men normally unwilling to risk his unusually large organ causing some sort of damage to them. Their bodies knocked together awkwardly on the small bed, Sergei's long leg tossed over one of the edges to make room for Albert to kneel between his thighs, wrapping the other around Albert's back. Their sweat-slicked chests rubbed and rolled against one another, lips never parting for long.

Albert left without saying anything, dressing and slipping out into the hot summer night like it had never happened. 

But Sergei knew it had happened.

There was no ventilation in the awful bunker. It smelled like sex for days.

\--

Albert didn't treat him any better after that night, though Sergei didn't really expect him to.

The two didn't come into contact a whole lot anyway, save for the weekly board meetings. Sergei would try to say hello, or offer him a smile. Albert would just cringe away from him. The Russian was left wondering why he'd bothered touching him to begin with, if he hated him so much. He felt quite stupid.

Within his first three months, Sergei was slowly coming into his role, getting the hang of his job duties and the corporation's expectations of him.

He'd willingly saunter into the medical clinics when stoic clinicians asked him to, outstretching his arm and letting them draw or inject whatever they wished without protest. They'd stuff him with pills, tablets, and capsules, and he'd swallow them down without fear. They assured him nothing would hurt him anyway.

Every two weeks, he'd get a pay delivered to the small mailbox on his door. He'd never had so much money before. It took him a few days to learn, but he was able to use his phone to call an operator and have the money sent wherever he wanted for a fee. Meals, drinks, and all sorts of indulgences were provided at the facility, so he almost felt the pay was useless. He sent it all to his close friends -- a portion to Nicholai Zinoviev, his most trusted junior and a man he was attempting to secure a position at the corporation for, and a portion to a bank account held in trust by his comrade Vladimir Kryuchkov. Kryuchkov, an old KGB dog, had told him he was planning something great.

Spencer had agreed to let him have a television in his room. He was very grateful. Sergei wasn't interested in the American shows, but liked to watch the news channels sometimes. He thought it helped him with his English. At night, he could leave it on a channel he found that was nothing but white and grey dots -- it made a calming noise that helped him sleep.

The television was the worst thing that happened to him. 

\--

Albert rasped on the tin door of Sergei's bunker, grumbling and shoving his hands in his pockets. The late August coolness was biting at night.

Spencer had sent him to check on the Colonel, a task he was most certainly not appreciative of having been assigned to. Sergei had disappeared from the floor the last few days, and while Spencer said he ' _knew what it was related to'_ , he waved dismissively through the details and sent Albert to go and find the missing Colonel.

"Sergei, are you in there?" Albert asked, annoyed. He rasped again, knocking on the door loudly, "Sergei, you can't just fuck off from your duties when you feel like it!"

Albert angrily grabbed the doorhandle, never one to care about politeness. To his surprise, it turned open without resistance. Immediately, he was accosted by the scent of liquor. The room was dark but for the television, but Albert could clearly see empty glass bottles strewn about the floor.

Sergei was sitting on his bed in the corner, leaning against the wall, completely still. His legs were so long they hung off the other side of the bed.

"Jesus Christ." Albert scoffed, nose crinkling as he took in the overwhelming smell, "Disgusting! What the _fuck_ are you doing?"

Sergei didn't respond, head hung low between his shoulders. 

Albert turned to the television idly, crossing his arms. The volume was too low to hear it, but he could immediately tell what was going on. The reel was flashing through various scenes of turmoil in Moscow, tanks and soldiers, some with their arms in the air in defeat. The chyron proclaimed:

**_COMMUNIST COUP AGAINST GORBACHEV FAILS_ **

**_SEVEN IN CUSTODY, ONE DEAD_ **

"Oh this bullshit." Albert rolled his eyes, a bark of a laugh escaping him, "See? See?! Did your _Lord Spencer_ help you?"

Sergei didn't respond.

"So fucking naive! How could a Colonel be so _fucking_ naive? It's would be funny if it weren't so incompetent!" Albert shook his head, a sardonic smirk on his face. He approached the bed slowly, dipping his head down to try and get a better look at Sergei's unmoving, unchanging face. The tearstained cheeks made him cluck his tongue in mock-sympathy, "Pathetic."

Sergei blinked then, unscarred eye fluttering to catch his. Albert paused then, and the pause was immediately taken advantage of -- Sergei slipping his arm around the other man's shoulders and pulling him onto the bed. Albert climbed onto the mattress on his knees, awkwardly stumbling over Sergei's thigh. He watched down his nose as the older man began to plant kisses at his collarbone, not even bothering to pull away the shirt that was covering the flesh he was trying to caress. 

"Drunk whore." Albert scoffed, disgusted by the smell of liquor but somehow unable to stop himself from bringing a hand up to run through Sergei's greasy hair. He found a streak of the remaining copper, and played with the few reddish strands for a moment. "So naive."

"C-c-c-an stay? Tonight?" 

"Mm. No. I have work to do and you stink." Albert said, but he made no effort to leave.

\--

Sergei didn't feel good. 

The first day, he wrote it off as it being the natural consequences of his depression-induced alcohol binge. He did that on the second, too. And even the third. But by the fourth, he began to feel like something was wrong. On the fifth, he began to get worried. 

He'd be rocked out of sleep by mind-hazing nausea before the fall sun had even risen. He'd rush to the toilet and empty the contents of his stomach -- an empty stomach, one he'd not been able to put anything more than a bowl of oats and some water in.

On the seventh day, he went to the facility doctor and reported his symptoms. She drew blood and told him to wait in the little clinic for the results. She assured him it would be fast. But as minutes turned to hours, and hours to more, he began to get concerned. 

By the time she returned, he'd read through all of the magazines on the shelf several times, and even begun to steal cottontails from the glass jars on the counter to toss into the garbage can and keep himself entertained. 

He didn't like the look on her face. Nor did he like that Lord Spencer waddled into the office behind her, closing the door firmly. Sergei immediately stood upon seeing the patriarch, respectfully offering his chair. But it was declined. 

"R-really?" Sergei's unscarred eye widened when he was told the news. His gaze shifted rapidly between the Doctor and Lord Spencer, in total disbelief. 

"Do you have any idea... how this... this is even possible?" Spencer asked, unblinking eyes focused intently.

"Y-yes." Sergei shrugged, "They changed my body inside. I-it was experiment. But it failed! I-I never had pregnancy."

"You mean in the USSR?" Spencer clarified, "They tried to start a supersoldier breeding program?"

"Yes!" Sergei nodded, "Is why made clone instead. It no work."

Spencer huffed a deep breath through his nose, turning to the Doctor.

"This goes no where. Do you understand?" Spencer pointed a long, skeletal finger at the clinician, who immediately nodded. "Do you?" He redirected his finger to Sergei, a firm expression on his face.

Sergei nodded. 

"Okay..." Spencer took a deep breath, "Belinda, give him the--"

The Doctor scrambled to retrieve the little paper cup she'd brought with her, one that contained a single, blue pill.

"Take this." She said, offering the older man the medicine, "You won't feel much more than cramping. It will be taken care of."

Sergei looked at the pill, eyebrows cocking upwards, "To-to? To get rid of..."

"It will induce a miscarriage, yes."

\--

Sergei asked to take the pill in his room. He said he preferred to take medicine with tea. 

The Doctor, surprisingly, didn't offer any resistance, simply assuming he wanted it gone as much as they did. ' _Whatever makes you most comfortable_ ,' she'd said, going over all of the side effects he might have after taking it. He was almost three months into his pregnancy, so she was concerned about bleeding and nausea. But he shrugged it off and told her it would be fine. 

The pill had gone straight into the toilet.

He sat on the edge of the tub, recalling all of the little symptoms he'd had. The tightness in his abs, the nausea, the weird cravings. He'd just thought he was getting fat and sick from the crappy American canteen food. 

With some degree of horror, he remembered the alcohol binge he'd had less than a week ago, and sent himself into a panic about what damage he'd done. He paced around his small room like a caged animal -- Would the baby be deformed? Slow? Missing limbs? Would it be ugly? Stupid? Mentally ill? All of the propaganda he'd seen on drinking mothers suddenly rushed into his mind. 

"I'm so sorry!" He said, looking down at his stomach, "I did not know! Please don't be sick!"

Though his fear lingered, excitement still tickled at his chin.

He was pregnant! His country's program worked! He would have a baby -- he'd always wanted to have a family. He knew it was his duty to have children. Good, healthy, strong ones. 

The only man he'd been with in the last three months had been Albert. Albert was smart and handsome. His genes were good, healthy, and strong. He was a perfect mate. Barring any damage from the liquor, the baby would be perfect. 

He wondered if Albert wanted a baby, too. 

\--

"What is your IQ?"

Albert bristled, "Wh-what?"

Sergei asked again, hands folded behind his back as he leaned over Albert's workstation in the laboratory, "What is your IQ?"

"Higher than yours." Albert said through a clenched jaw, trying to focus on his Petri dishes, "Now get away from me."

Sergei smiled, "Do you have any -- disease in family?"

Albert dropped the sample he was holding, the plastic disk spinning and clattering as it landed on the desk, "What the hell are you asking me this crap for? I told you to get away from me!" 

Sergei pursed his lips, ignoring Albert's glare and quieting his voice, "Do you want a baby?"

"W-what?!" Albert barked a scoff, "What the-- what kind of survey are you conducting? Who asked you to do this? Spencer?!"

Sergei shook his head rapidly, "No! Not Lord Spencer. I am just asking."

Albert sighed loudly, adjusting his glasses. He swallowed and looked up at the big oaf, still towering over him despite being almost totally bent at the hip.

"No, I don't want a baby. I hate children."

"You hate?" Sergei frowned.

"Yes. I _hate_." Albert mocked his accent, "They are a giant waste of time and money. I am a busy man."

He sneered as he watched Sergei turn to leave. He called after him as the massive man disappeared into the shadows of the lab.

"And I suggest you stop trafficking babies, if that's what you are up to! It's illegal in America!"

\--

Nicholai had drank his way through four small bottles of _Stolichnaya_ before he let Sergei continue.

"Okay... Okay... So... Again." Nicholai said, spinning his finger, "Tell me again."

"I am pregnant."

Nicholai grabbed another small bottle from the bounty he'd stolen on the plane ride over, flicked the cap off and immediately downed it in one shot. Sergei watched him, amused. It had been so long since he'd seen his friend in the flesh -- finally having secured him a position at Umbrella in light of the formation and population of the U.B.C.S. The two had hugged for what felt like hours upon seeing each other again, hands running through hair and brotherly kisses on cheeks being exchanged.

" _Bozhe_." Nicholai sighed, "It worked, hmm? The program worked. I thought... I thought..."

"Me too."

Nicholai snatched yet another bottle out of his satchel, eyes beginning to roll lazily. "How many months?"

"Seven."

The younger man popped his head around the table, staring Sergei's waist up and down.

"You do not seem big." He shrugged, "But you are tall and wide."

"Look!" Sergei stood from his chair, lifting up the hem of his big wool sweater. A little fleshy bump was just faintly visible, if only because it was where his solid abs had softened slightly in the expansion. To anyone else, it would have simply looked like a bit of pudge. 

Nicholai reached out and poked the belly softly before skirting a palm over the warm, blushing flesh. He looked around the small dorm room, a frown tugging at his lips.

"But you cannot keep it here..." 

"No. I must find it a home." Sergei nodded, "They wanted me to... get rid of it. I told them I did. I lied."

Nicholai nodded, "I know someone, maybe. A woman. I will call her."

\--

Sergei knew he had to continue working hard to avoid suspicion. His clothes covered him well enough, masking the fattiness he'd developed, but despite the small size of the bump in relation to his massive frame, it felt incredibly heavy in his hips. Sitting was always with a grunt, and the closer he got to the ninth month, the more certain smells and sounds grated on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard.

The firing of guns left his ears ringing, as did the clatter of the hundreds of mercenaries he'd populated into the first U.B.C.S division. Being in their presence did trigger his old military prowess, however, and he stalked a bit cooler throughout the day. He was in his element, pregnant or otherwise.

Despite his happiness, the training drills he led for the Captains took a toll on his body. He'd squint and wince through ten mile-long jogs, and ache and tremble through weight lifting in the gym. The sprog in him didn't appreciate all of the activity, and would get its retribution by kicking his stomach into submission while he tried to sleep off the day's toil. No matter the annoyance, though, Sergei didn't mind. He'd praise it for its strength when it cut a heel into his kidney, and compliment it for its tenacity when it woke him up in the middle of the night to vomit. It had a strong will. 

It was February 8, 1992 when he felt a novel sensation lurch through his guts.

It stopped him in his tracks as he walked down the laboratory hall alongside Lord Spencer, now a revered and respected member of the facility. Instinctively, he put a hand to his belly, but banished it before Lord Spencer noticed. 

Though Spencer was drawling through one thing or another, Sergei could no longer pay attention. Alarm bells began blaring in his mind -- it was happening.

"My Lord... Please forgive me, I forgot I have a call with -- ah... a-a prison in Russia. To re-populate the losses in Charlie platoon."

Spencer nodded, and Sergei slipped away, trying not to look like he was rushing as he slinked towards his dormitory. He'd been put in a new apartment recently, a much nicer one, fitting of his rank and the work he put into the company. But it was far further than the last had been. Fearing he wouldn't make it, he skirted down towards where he knew Nicholai's dorm room was in the Sargeant's quarters.

He prayed his junior was there as he knocked loudly, sighing loudly in relief when he heard scurrying behind the door.

"Who i--"

"Let me in, **_now_**."

\--

"He is very cute."

"All babies are ugly."

" ** _Kolya_**!"

Nicholai smirked, "Fine. All babies are ugly but yours."

"Mm."

Sergei tried to adjust his arm beneath the infant, feeling like a dinosaur holding a porcelain doll. The sprout was so small, able to fit in both of his palms if he lay them side by side. He was chubby and quiet, not at all full of the screaming gusto Sergei had expected from a newborn. 

But, most importantly, he was healthy. His face was beautiful. His limbs were all in tact, fingers and toes all there. Sergei had checked him incessantly the moment he was born.

"He's got your hair." Nicholai noted, stroking a single finger through the thin spatter of soft, copper locks atop the baby's head. The contact made the infant's massive eyes flutter open for a moment, a pale blue glare shooting its way out towards the younger man. Nicholai snatched his finger away like he was about to get bit by a rabid dog, "He's got your attitude, too."

Sergei chuckled, trying to sink deeper into the pillow behind him. It hadn't been as painful as he'd thought it might be, but he was still exhausted. He lifted a hand to wipe a bit of the milk that was lingering on the baby's cheek, having just finished a bottle of the formula Nicholai had bought in the town and kept stashed away for him.

"I like him very much." Sergei mumbled.

"You can't keep him."

"I know..." He shrugged, "But I like him."

A moment of silence passed, the heater clicking to life and a gust of warm air flowing into the room from the overhead vents. Nicholai adjusted Sergei's covers dotingly, sitting back in the chair he'd dragged up beside the bed. Nicholai's phone rang a tone in his pocket, and he fished to check the message he'd been sent.

"It's her." Nicholai muttered, "Asking how it went."

"Are you sure she is good?" Sergei asked the question he'd asked close to one million times, "She is kind?"

Nicholai began clicking out a response on the tiny keypad, "She is. Trust me. She will go back to Edonia soon and take him."

Sergei nodded, turning back to the baby. His eyes had closed once more, and his tiny chest rose and fell beneath the soft blankets. Sergei reverently ran his fingers over the tiny body, still in awe of him though hours had already passed.

"So small." Sergei almost whimpered, "He is so small. Is it normal for them to be so small?"

Nicholai breathed a chuckle, nodding.

Another moment of silence passed, and the phone's chime broke it once more.

"She asked if you will name him or if you want her to."

"I want to..." Sergei furrowed his brow, "He's mine."

"What will you name him, then?"

"Iakov." Sergei grinned, having already decided long ago, "Iakov Sergeyavich Vladimirov."

"You know he will not have your last name, legally. Her last name is Muller."

Sergei shrugged a bit, fingers still playing over his son's chest, "Iakov Muller." He tried the name out, his nose crinkling, "Jacob Muller."

\--

Iakov was only in his arms for five hours.

Nicholai had arranged for the Edonian woman to pick him up on the border of Wisconsin just before sunrise. He had to leave at 5 a.m to make the drive to be there on time. Sergei had stayed up the entire night with Iakov, petting and kissing him gently.

At 4:50 a.m, they began the trek to the facility's parkade. Sergei held Iakov carefully, a bundle within a bundle within a bundle of folded up clothes. Only Iakov's little face peeped out within the pile, Sergei’s finger delicately running over his soft lips as he walked. Nicholai had a slung laundry bag slung over his shoulder to make it look like they were just going to dump their uniforms. It would have been an odd hour to do that, but everything at the facility was odd, and no one would have cared had they seen.

"Okay, Iakov. You be good." Sergei muttered as Nicholai unlocked one of the company SUVs, "You be a good boy for me."

Nicholai carefully peeled the baby from Sergei's arms, ignoring the man's soft resistance and the slackening expression on his scarred face. 

"Bye, bye, Iakov." Sergei said as Nicholai closed the passenger door after laying the child on the seat.

"I will be back before breakfast." He said, trying to change the subject as quickly as he could.

Sergei sighed loudly, clearly choking back some emotions.

"And-- and get her bank information for the money. Tell her I'll send every month."

Nicholai nodded, slipping around to the driver's side without another word. 

Sergei stood in the parkade and watched the lights grow more and more distant, red taillights fading away down the long, long stretch of private highway beyond the gate.

As he waited, the shutter slowly began to close, pinching the view of the outside world tighter and narrower until it was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> OOOOOKAY so this super quick fic was me riffing on an idea the lovely and beautiful SweetNSimple gave me. Their idea was far more complex and way more interesting, but revolved around Sergei being Jake's parent along with Albert, with Sergei using some scientific resources to have a child without Albert knowing in a futuristic fashion.
> 
> HOWEVER I ENCOUNTERED AN ISSUE when I looked at the canonical date for Jake's birth, and saw it was 1992. The Soviet Union would have *just* collapsed, so technically Sergei might not have even been working for Umbrella. 
> 
> BUT I tried to make it work in a different way, and just could not resist pregging Sergei because honestly -- 7 foot tall Russian guy. Primo mpreg material. Obviously this is a massive divergence in his characterisation in 99% of my stories, but I just thought that, based on the timeline, he would have been a fresh little dumpling at Umbrella and maybe a bit softer.
> 
> ALSO: Obligatory note that Pokemon didn't actually come out until 1996. I lied.
> 
> I HOPE YOU LIKED IT!!


End file.
